Fangs Of The Forgotten World
by fallen-wolfborn
Summary: The Dovahkiin awakes to a very different world. The Elves are oppressed, the Beastfolk have fled and the Divines and Daedra are forgotten by the world. Much that once was, is lost. For none now live who remember him. Discontinued, rewrite now up under title Wicked Man.
1. Chapter 1

The Dovahkiin stood before Alduin's flame... and persevered. The stocky Nord swung Volendrung a final time and cracked the Old God's skull open like an egg. Bone and brain matter flew everywhere as the Dragon God died with a final defiant roar. The massive black corpse of Alduin crashed to the ground with a booming noise that shook the earth.

The Dovahkiin dropped to his knees, exhausted. The battle had been long, and Alduin had been ridiculously resilient to his blows, despite Malacath's blessings. "Talos above... I need a rest." He fell onto his back and stared up at the sky as Alduin's ancient began to flow into his body, imparting knowledge, wisdom, strength ... and anger. That wasn't normal, he thought as he went unconscious.

Yet, all was not well in the plane of Oblivion. Akatosh looked upon his eldest son's body, and wept tears of anguish and sorrow. Kynareth and Talos smiled as their champion put an end to the suffering of their people. Malacath sang a great ballad about his mighty hammer Volendrung and the champion who wielded it against the son of the God-King Akatosh and smote him upon the mountain side.

The Daedra laughed, all had dealings with the Dovahkiin at some point or another and they had had a lot of fun watching his progress, especially Sanguine and Sheogorath. All were happy, save Mephala. She was furious. The Dovahkiin had taken up her Ebony Blade and then abandoned it in a chest in Vlindrel Hall. She had whispered to him to kill that pathetic Housecarl of his, Lydia to gain power beyond his imagining and he ignored it.

She hated those who took the high ground. It wasn't even as if he was a priest of Arkay or some other self-righteous dolt. He had bashed an old man's brains in to work for Molag Bal. He had eaten human flesh to gain that disgusting Namira's favour. The worst was hiring that mage and then giving him to Boethiah as a sacrifice. He was a complete hypocrite!

She knew Azura and Nocturnal were laughing at her behind her back, and it was only a matter of time until Hermaeus Mora found out, nosy busy-body as he was. She didn't like this feeling of rejection and humiliation, from a blasted mortal no less! In her rage, Mephala did not see that the Dovahkiin was already dying. No human soul, not even the Dovahkiin could sustain such a huge amount of power in such a short space of time.

Watchful Hircine was the only one who picked up on this, and he was annoyed. The Dovahkiin was less his champion, than a minor avatar of his due to his wolf blood. Hircine knew the other Daedra would lose interest soon and the Dovahkiin could not survive on His will alone.

So Hircine decided to help the Dovahkiin in the best way possible. He turned him into the statue of a great hound, which sat upon a mountain top beside the desiccated skeleton of his greatest enemy for the centuries until Alduin's power could be absorbed.

X-X-X-X-DOVAHKIIN-X-X-X-X

Over the next few thousand years, the landscape shifted and changed. Atmora drifted south out of the cold and people began to live there again. The Khajiit and Argonians fled to the southern lands, beyond the reach of bigoted human lords. The Dwemer returned, changed beyond recognition and with no memory of what their race had accomplished and rebuilt an empire beneath the ground.

The bigotry sparked by Ulfric's rebellion drove the elves to foreign lands where they eventually became a single people and their magic granted them a lifespan similar to immortality. A lot of what was the Empire and Skyrim fell into disarray after the assassination of the Emperor by the Dark Brotherhood. Continental shift buried much of the eastern lands underwater, including the Imperial City.

The Redguards fled across the ocean created to a peninsula from Hammerfell and called it Rivain. The Orcs found favour with both Malacath and Jyggalag, who sent them north beyond Atmora in their thousands to change in a new people under a single faith and banner, the Qunari. The magic in the blood of the Bretons was corrupted by a massive wave of painful nightmares spread by Vaermina until it became connected to Oblivion, which by then was called the Fade. This connected mages to Oblivion in a way never seen before, and their darker sides became manifest, as demons.

Belief in both Aedra and Daedra fell away in most parts of the world, most humans eventually becoming converted to the worship of a single deity known as the Maker, had surprised the two pantheons and their followers by gaining strength inordinately quickly, sweeping aside all opposition under the banner of His Bride, the Prophetess Andraste.

The wars that followed and the subsequent destruction of the Dales angered many of the Aedra and Daedra, whom the elves had been worshipping under new names for at least two thousand years. The only thing that annoyed them as much was the actions of the Falmer, or at least what had been the Falmer.

The dragons had dwindled after the death of their leader Alduin. Many died, but those who did not either fled to Paarthurnax, who sat at the top of The Throat of the World, or went underground and went to sleep again. The Falmer sometimes came across these sleeping dragons and tried to domesticate them, but failed hilariously. Until Namira and Peyrite formed a pact.

The Falmer became infected with a horrific, corrupting disease the humans later called the Taint. They changed and twisted into vile creatures who eventually subdued a dragon and corrupted it as well. At the same time, some ambitious mages attempted to gain access to a part of the Fade that couldn't be accessed by mortals. The Maker threw them out of the Fade into the pit of the Falmer, who turned them into the first Darkspawn. They in turn corrupted and spread underground, reaching the empire of the Dwarves.

Eventually men and women sacrificed their lives to become Grey Wardens, who took a little of the taint into themselves, shocking and amusing the Daedra, to gain an awareness of the Darkspawn that in the end allowed them to destroy the Archdemon and drive the Darkspawn back underground. This happened another three times, each more destructive than the last.

Empires rose and fell, plague and famine swept across the land and wars killed millions, but through all this the Dovahkiin slept on, his legend nigh but forgotten and the hound statue that contained him brought to a gilded prison in the middle of a lake, where a young mage who would change the fate of the world, but not in the way she could have, was being led through a cellar by her best friend and his new girlfriend.

This is not the story of the Warden who saved Ferelden. This is not the story of a hawk who took flight. This story is the return of a legend to the world. The return of a hero. In their tongue he is Dovahkiin. Dragonborn.


	2. Chapter 2

Ysabel Amell knew that something weird was in the room. It was a power source, not unlike the feeling of lyrium in the Fade. Jowan and Lily were understandably jumpy about touching anything in the rooms but something told her that the dog statue held something of great importance.

"Come on Ysabel, the phylactery should be right through here somewhere. Don't touch the statue." Ysabel turned away and towards the bookcase obstructing their path. She scratched her head.

"Well I'm stumped. Anyone got an idea?"

'_The statue.' _Ysabel jumped, not that either of her companions noticed. _'Use the statue.'_

Ysabel, without really knowing why, turned back to the stone hound. It looked old, very old. The designs carved on it looked ... different from anything she had seen before. It wasn't Tevinter, no matter what the plaque under it said. She knew ancient Tevinter and that was not was not what the scratched writing on the forehead was. It looked almost like... claw marks. Strange.

She moved her thumb across the marks and started hearing a pounding noise in her ears. It was beautiful, hypnotic and sounded like "... a heart?" Ysabel's shout made Lily shriek in surprise. Jowan jumped, startled.

"Ysabel, what are you doing? Don't touch the statue!" Ysabel jumped back as she started to feel the previously cold stone get warm under hand. The candles suddenly flickered as the statue started to glow red, then white hot. "By the Maker, what have you done?" An inhuman howl echoed throughout the basement as the statue started to expand ... and crack.

Blue and green vapour started to pour off the statue as the stone cracked and splintered. A humanoid shape was visible, and so were the outlines of armour pauldrons. The howl turned into a human scream as the upright human fell to his knee, dripping with sweat. Ysabel fell backwards onto her rear, bringing her down to eye level with the kneeling man.

"W-What are you?" The man raised his soaking head, long blond hair partly covering his blue eyes. Scars criss-crossed what parts of his body were exposed, but his face was handsome and he had some thick blonde stubble. His eyes seemed to focus in and out on her scared face. He reached out a hand to touch her paling face, as if to see if she was in fact real. He withdrew his hand and panted on the floor.

Then he spoke. His accent was strange and garbled in ragged, painstakingly drawn breaths. "Where am I Breton? Where is Alduin?"

X-X-X-X-SKYRIM-X-X-X-X

The girl was nice, he decided. She didn't seem to understand what he had asked, but she dabbed at his brow with the hem of her dress. He was alive, it seemed, and although it was good that there was no bloody dragon around trying to fry him like some cut of meat, he didn't recognise anyone or anything around him. The floor was stone and that was familiar, but this wasn't anywhere in Skyrim that he had ever been.

What puzzled him most were the robes that the three younglings were wearing. The Breton girl and the ... Imperial boy he would say wore something similar to each other but the Imperial girl's robes were nothing he had seen before, except on a cultist of the Mythic Dawn. They were now extinct and the designs were different, but the rising sun motif was familiar.

He locked eyes with the Breton girl again and asked again more slowly. "Where am I Breton? Where is Alduin?"

The girl suddenly frowned and did something he did not expect. "I asked you first." The gasps of her companions went ignored as he raised a single eyebrow and smiled. He got up and pulled her to her feet as well. She looked a lot more confident now and the smile grew wider. He looked around and deciding that he was in fact lost and that these possible cultists/mages/priests were his most likely help, he answered.

"I am a Nord."

X-X-X-X-SKYRIM-X-X-X-X

Whatever answer Ysabel had been expecting, that was not it. "A what?"

The tall man frowned. "A Nord, girl. As you well know Breton. What am I doing here and where is that bastard dragon Alduin? I know he's dead, now where is his corpse? I want to make armour out of it." The girl's eyes widened at the mention of the word 'dragon' so he guessed she couldn't be completely thick.

"Dragons? Don't talk rubbish, they're only stories." The other girl decided to speak up.

He stared at her in shock and shook his head. "Talos preserve us. Damn you girl, do you know nothing of the Elder Scrolls or the past year. I know Imperials are slower than most mammoths but this is unthinkable. Let me bring you up to date then. A dragon attacked Helgen. A dragon attacked Whiterun and the Dragonborn killed it. The Empire and the Stormcloaks signed a truce until the dragons were dead. The Dragonborn killed the God-King Alduin and I wound up here. Any of this ringing a bell, initiate?"

The three stared at him in bemusement and confusion. He sighed and shook his head. "Never mind. What day is it?"

The Imperial boy looked sufficiently cowed. "Thursday Sixth of January 9:30."

He looked incredulously at the boy. "Why give me the time?"

The by looked even more perplexed. "I didn't. It's the 30th year of the Dragon Age. The Ninth Age."

He suddenly felt his heart go very cold. "Ninth ... Age ...? It was the Fourth Era last I heard." He sat back down again heavily. It can't be... five centuries. It can't be."

The Breton suddenly gasped. "The Fourth Era? As in Eras pre-dating the Chantry? The Dales? The Blights? You wouldn't be five hundred years out... you'd be at least four or five thousand years out. How long were you a dog statue for anyway...?"

He heard the word 'dog' and thought about Clavicus Vile's troublesome mutt, but he was back with his master now... so it was Lord Hircine. He made sense when it came to choosing animals that were sacred. "I don't know. I still don't know where I am anyway so..."

"You're in the cellar of the Tower of Magi, home of the Ferelden Circle of Magi." He smirked.

"Mages? Very good! I was the Archmage in my day. Who did they get to replace me I wonder? Better not have been J'zargo, that idiot would've burnt down a Dwemer ruin. Who's Archmage these days?"

The three looked blankly at him. "Heh ... about that... what's an Archmage? I mean there's First Enchanter Irving but..." The boy noticed that the man's face had gone blank.

"An enchanter looking after conjurers and illusionists? What in Akatosh's name were these idiots thinking...? No matter, let us discuss politics and academics elsewhere. I don't know where I am in relation to anywhere so tell me later. Now what were you doing down here? Unless..." His gaze went directly to the boy's face, who cringed. "Are you a Sanguine acolyte?" Jowan shook his head. "No? How else do you explain being in a cellar with two lovely nubile young novices?"

The look of abject horror on the boy's face sent him into a laughing fit, which was surprisingly followed by the Breton. She was actually smiling. "I agree with tall and witty here. We need to get out of here, phylactery or not."

"What's a phylactery?"

The boy's face registered shock before descending into depression. "A device that allows Templars to track mages if they escape the Tower." The man froze still. The boy thought the man was about to stop breathing until his face became a snarl.

"What do you mean 'escape'? Who are these Templar bastards?"

"T-they lock up mages away from their families. Templars can neutralise a mage's powers... we were trying to get to my phylactery so me and Lily could escape, but now the bookcase is blocking the way and none of us are strong enough to budge it..." he trailed off. The man swore to himself. He needed to out get of this prison. A mage prison no less!

"If the way is blocked, I will make one!" He shoved the novices out of the path. **"FUS RO DAH!"**


	3. Chapter 3

Whatever Ysabel was expecting to happen when the 'Nord' shouted at the bookcase, a blue-coloured shockwave that ripped through the bookcase was not it. She was definitely not expecting it to smash a hole in the wall, sending stone bricks the size of fireballs ricocheting down the passageway, smashing into the next rooms.

The Nord turned and laughed with a wide smile on his face. "That is how to clear a path! Use your strength to cleave open a way!"

"What matter of abomination are you?" Ysabel rolled her eyes at Lily's obviously wrong assessment. For someone that was born into the Chantry and was routinely exposed to demonic threat, she knew precious little about what a demon felt like. She had known the feeling of both Rage and Sloth Demons from her Harrowing and the power rolling off this 'Nord' was definitely not demonic in nature.

Jowan looked a little more relaxed when she said as much, but Lily still looked scared. The 'Nord' looked very insulted, which she noted with some amusement. "I would be careful of your words Imperial girl. Your Voice of the Emperor won't help you against Skyforge Steel." There was more than a little bit of threat in his voice.

"I don't take kindly to being called an 'abomination'. That was no monstrous act; it was the ancient art of my people, of almighty Talos himself! It is a gift, a blessing and a great honour to carry. Now I don't know about you milk-drinkers, but I want out of this pit. Five thousand years will give you such a crick in the neck!" Without warning, he leapt through the hole and bounded off down the corridor.

"Not to sound like a cliché but ... follow that abomination!" Ysabel yanked the two lovebirds behind her as she took off down the corridor after him, dragging them over the splayed shards of rock that had been thrown through the doorway by ... whatever that thing he did was.

They eventually reached a chamber that seemed a lot colder than the ones before. The three novices shivered while the Nord felt quite at home.

X-X-X-X-SKYRIM-X-X-X-X

He had never seen anything quite like the phylactery chamber. Or the phylactery itself. He was no Mannimarco, worm-feeding sludge walker as he was, but if he had to make a guess the phylactery was similar to a soul gem in principal. A small part of the soul's essence could be used to track the whereabouts of the soul itself. Necromancy hadn't changed much in five millennia.

It was the ghosts that spawned from the Imperial boy destroying his phylactery that annoyed. It was a ridiculously common occurrence that whenever he picked up something, there was a booby trap or in the case of Red Eagle's sword, the offended undead corpse of a psychotic Forsworn hero. The lesson seemed to be not to touch anything, but where would the fun be in that?

He stood back and watched the novice ... whatever they were take care of the spectres with ease. Either these mages really needed tuition in how to protect potential security risks, or these novices were good with whatever magicka they seemed to use. It was different to what he normally saw, and seemed to require a lot more energy to cast, so either these mages had larger magicka reserves or the spells they knew were more complex than point and go 'boom'.

It seemed the Imperial boy and Breton girl were destruction mages, but the Imperial girl seemed able to cause the spirits damage with her fists. That was unusual, unless these spirits were fully corporeal, which was interesting. He shook his head to clear his thoughts as the grim smile on the Breton's face told him they were done here. He motioned for them to follow him, wondering why they didn't scold him for not aiding them.

The flight of stairs they climbed up took them into a wide entrance hall, where a group of heavily armed men awaited them. The armour was silver and seemed to carry the same symbol as the Imperial girl's robes. He scowled at the implications but the look of resignation and fear on the girl's face seemed to speak volumes about her innocence in the matter. The armour seemed blocky and unwieldy.

An older man in the same armour and his elderly companion in robes stepped forward from the group. "I thought we would you here Apprentice Jowan. You are accused of destroying your phylactery, engaging in a forbidden affair with a Chantry novice and of practicing blood magic." He thought it very rude that the man had apparently written him off as a non-threat or hadn't noticed him yet.

There was a few angry words said between the boy; Jowan apparently and the man in robes concerning the Imperial girl, named Lily, but it was the flash of a knife that caught his quick attention. He yanked the blade from Jowan's hands. "What were you thinking lad? Slicing your wrists won't do any good here. I take it these are your so-called templar watchdogs?"

Jowan was shocked and despairing but the Breton spoke up. "Yep, those are Greagoir's hounds alright. Finally glad to have an excuse to get rid of me, eh Greagoir?" The man said nothing. "And you Irving. You really are the Chantry's little mage bitch aren't you? You've betrayed us old man."

"These men watch over you? Hah! Their armour looks flimsy and new, no battle veterans here save for the old soldier there. It doesn't matter though; you've done nothing wrong by my standards so I'll help you against these milk-drinkers." Greagoir sneered at him.

"And what matter of abomination or demon is this? You've really outdone yourself this time Jowan, a demon summoning and enthralling said demon as well as your supposed best friend and lover, who by the way is a Chantry novice. Well I'm not standing for this blasphemy any longer! Templars, arrest them! Kill them if they resist!" The small phalanx drew their swords as one.

"Well Nord, it was nice meeting you, even if I'm about to die. My name's Ysabel Amell." Ysabel's voice was quite and she didn't see the happy smile on his face.

"Ah well girl, you needn't worry about your health now. I'm not going to be outdone by some tin soldiers." He turned to the Templars. "To paraphrase an old friend of mine, let me show you the power of Talos Stormcrown, born of the North, where my breath is long winter!"

Greagoir looked incredulously at him. "Arrest them! He has lost his mind. That or he's about to curse us. Kill that man!" The Templars let out a war cry as one and charged at the Nord.

"IIZ SLEN NUS!" A blast of icy cold air shot from the Nord's mouth at his shout, flash-freezing all Templars in front of him. That made the rest stop cold, not unlike their comrades. Greagoir gaped at his men. A Blizzard from Irving wouldn't have done that. Irving was pleasantly surprised and gave the Nord a calculating look.

The Nord then raised his hand towards the group of frozen Templars. A small red glow formed in his hand, then grew larger and larger. "You are right to be scared of me, Templar. For you have threatened those who I owe my freedom to. But I am not an abomination. I am not a demon in human form. My ancestors fought a war against creatures that destroyed and enslaved their homes and their people. Yet, there is one they feared."

He took a single step forward. "In their tongue, I am Dovahkiin. Dragonborn." A ball of fire shot from his hand and exploded on impact with the Templars, melting not only the ice, but flesh and bone as well. The flame caught on the wall hangings and rose up them.

"Run to the door! Go!" The Dragonborn pulled Ysabel and her friends towards the entrance, where they broke into a run. The darkness outside helped them get to the boat before more Templars started to come after them. The bridge was sheltered enough to protect them from sight. It wasn't until they had gotten to the other side that the Dovahkiin stared up at the sky in horror.

Ysabel noticed the look of shock on his face. "What's wrong Nord?"

He dropped to his knees. "Where's the second moon? Where is Oblivion?"


	4. Chapter 4

The Nord seemed despondent as Ysabel and Jowan dragged him along away from the bridge's edge towards the woods, as if something dear to him had been destroyed. Ysabel grimaced at the weight of this guy in his antique armour, he couldn't be depressed now, and they needed to escape the country. This Nord with his strange magic and wild eccentricities was their best option.

She knew that her phylactery was on its way to Denerim and that until it was destroyed, none of them were safe. It would take a while for Greagoir to send any kind of message to Denerim; he would be occupied with keeping the news of their escape under wraps and replacing the Templars the Nord killed with fresh troops.

She realized it was stupid that she kept referring to the only reason she and her friends were still alive as 'the Nord' but the weird man had never disclosed his actual name. It could Talos Stormcrown, it could be Dovahkiin, she just didn't know. She was exhausted, and was more occupied with finding somewhere to set up camp where the depressed master mage could sleep without a threat to his health.

"Ysabel, do you think this is far enough? This crazy, albeit brilliant man is heavier than those spider corpses we had to clear out last month. Let's dump him here for a bit until he comes out of his stupor." Ysabel nodded her agreement.

"He's one bulky guy, but this would be easier if your forbidden fruit of a girlfriend would give us a hand." Lily had the decency to look sheepish as she shrugged.

"I really didn't think of it. I was more concerned that he was possessed by some demon or something, but I've never heard of a demon using ice or revealing a name. If you and Jowan need to drag some half-crazed apostate dog-mage through a forest again, I'll lend a hand." Ysabel gave a surprised smile at Lily's attitude. Perhaps she wasn't as ... damp as she previously thought.

They laid him down, his back against a rock as Ysabel smacked his face to bring him around. "Hey, Nord-man. Are you still with us?" He seemed to focus on her face, as a single tear ran from his right eye.

"Gone... they're all gone...the Divines... and the Princes...all gone." He shivered and slapped himself in the face. "That's impossible. They can't be gone." He saw the asking look on the novices faces. "When I was last awake, there were two higher planes of existence known as Aetherius and Oblivion. One was home to the Nine Divines, creators, protectors, patrons of Man and Mer alike. The other was home to the Daedric Princes, beings beyond mortal comprehension that toyed with our lives and represented the darker side of people."

"It was well known and documented that one in Skyrim could see the plane of Oblivion shining red in the sky at night. It seems to have vanished and Aetherius looks very different, scarred almost. Either the Princes have constructed a new realm, or they have been killed. This saddens me as I owe patronage to no less than six of the sixteen."

Lily looked nervous. "You said they represented the darker side of us, why would you serve them? Surely the Mak-Divines as you say, would be better?"

He nodded gravely. "I never purposely got involved with most of them, but you don't disobey a higher being without due cause. It tends to be ... unwise. I did favours for most of them, but I am little more than a pawn, as are all mortals. I owe service to Hircine of the Hunt, Azura of Dawn and Dusk, Nocturnal of Shadows, Malacath of Outcasts, Sheogorath of Madness and Sanguine of Debauchery. I have served most others at one point or another, but these ones aren't trying to get me to kill anyone. Well, save Hircine, but I dealt with that to his liking."

Jowan sat down, looking near mesmerised by what he was saying. "Did no-one in your time know of the Maker? I understand not knowing Andraste; she wasn't born until centuries later, but still..."

"I have never heard of a single god who created everything or who is patron of everything. I certainly haven't heard of this Andraste... do tell." He spent the next hour hearing what Lily could tell him, and he wasn't very impressed. "It seems that either your Chantry is corrupt, or your god is corrupt." Lily bristled, but she knew where he was coming from. A lot of what the Chantry taught was good and moral, but she had seen so many hypocrites over the years, it hadn't done anything to aid her faith.

The Nord sat up. "So, what's our next move? I will attempt to commune with either the Divines or my patrons at another date. We need to get away from the mage hunters. They will surely chase after us come the dawn, but I know nothing of the land. Where can we go?"

Ysabel sat down as well and sighed sadly. "They will find us easily if my phylactery gets to Denerim, so we need to destroy it before we can think of anything else. There is news of darkspawn on the surface so we will need to be careful in the countryside on our way, but we can think on what to do after that once my phylactery is gone. Without that it will be a lot more difficult for us to be tracked."

Jowan nodded. "We also need new clothes for disguise. Two mages, a Chantry novice and a mercenary will bring attention we don't need right now... and thank you. For stopping me I mean." Ysabel and Lily gave him a curious look. "I had researched a spell to create a ward against Greagoir should he ever catch me. But it was blood magic." The two gasped and glared at him. "You stopped me from throwing my life away. Thanks."

The Nord chuckled. "Blood magic? Is that what they call it nowadays? We called it a Soul Ward, or at least, Savos Aren did. I don't see the danger in it. Empowering a spell with your own blood has been used since the First Era. It was commonplace in my time and there was no problem with it. What's changed?"

Lily looked shocked. "You've never ... Have you ever been to the Fade? Blood magic requires a deal with a demon that could possess your body and turn you into an abomination... oh... sorry about earlier. New magic tends to spook me. But blood magic is evil. The Tevinter Magisters used it to subdue and enslave the minds and souls of their slaves before Andraste's time. It calls on demonic forces that no man can command."

The Nord grinned. "I have looked into the abyss young one, and called it by its true name. And that's one more thing, Ysabel I know and Jowan was introduced by the old soldier, but I don't know your name. Seems unfair if you ask me."

Lily giggled. "My name's Lily. And how can you talk, ser? You have mentioned titles of your, but we don't know your name either. How's that for fair?"

The Nord laughed heartily. "I have never been a cheat in my life Lily. A thief, a rebel, a soldier and a mage yes, but never once a cheat. I should introduce myself. I am among the chosen of Kynareth, and heir to the power of Talos Stormcrown. I am the slayer of Alduin and the first Dovahkiin since the distant green summers. My name is ..."

A/N: Thank you so much for all the reviews and keep them coming in. They fuel me like so much overpriced diesel. To those who think I'm going to make the Dragonborn OP, it's kinda relative. The Dragonborn was destined TO KILL DRAGONS IN THEIR THOUSANDS. It's hard to put it in perspective but the Dovahkiin was OP already. Oh and I want suggestions for a name for him. If none come in or I don't like them I'll name him something quite Viking.


	5. Chapter 5

"Grim-Cairn. Harald Grim-Cairn of Riften. My home is the Rift and all lands found there." Ysabel smirked.

"Ysabel Amell of the tall white prison back there. Same for Jowan here, but I think Lily here is from... Redcliffe originally?" Lily's nod confirmed. "I don't think I've ever heard of the Rift though." Harald looked disheartened.

"Not all could have changed in five millennia... it is most tiring. I believe it would be best if we got back into the chase. The old soldier will be after us come daybreak and I have no desire to face those tin soldiers again. I had enough trouble with the Dwemer junk before it had a mind under the plates." He began to walk in a straight line away from the tower.

Ysabel looked at the other two and shrugged before they set off after him. Harald kept looking in awe around him, looking for a trace of white snow anywhere, but it seemed to be forest after forest, which he thought privately, was a nice change from the snow and driving wind of northern Skyrim. Not that he would ever admit it.

Ysabel walked up closer to beside him. "So ... Harald ... any chance might share what that magic you blasted down a wall and froze a small army of Templars with was?" She fluttered her eyelids, making Harald raise a single eyebrow and smile.

"No eye fluttering at me little Breton." His smile grew at the scowl that appeared on her face. "You need only ask. The Dovahkiin can naturally project the power of his voice to speak the language of the dragons in a Thu'um, or Shout." At this his smile grew wistful. "It is a power beyond the likes of anything seen in this world I would imagine. Such a strange world too."

Jowan walked on his other side, Lily beside him. "How do you mean?"

Harald shook his head, as if pondering it over. "It's as if the fundaments are still there, but broken or rearranged in ways I wouldn't have thought possible. A single god instead of a pantheon, mages oppressed because of fear and superstition and I don't even want to know what's happened to the elves in the past millennia. They weren't well liked back then and I'm betting they aren't now."

Ysabel winced at the knowledge of the destruction of Arlathan and later the Dales. Harald would not be pleased if his reaction to the Templars was anything to go by. They travelled east for the rest of the night and through the day, finally making camp on a small sheltered hill near the Brecillian Forest.

Harald had caught a young doe earlier that day and a crude spit was set up over a small enough fire to be undetected by those outside and not to be too badly affected by the wind. Lily had originally balked at the idea of eating the meat, seeing it as unhygienic, but Harald scoffed, saying he had eaten three bowls of mammoth cheese and dog meat washed down with stamina potion as part of a skooma detox meal while travelling in High Rock and it hadn't killed him.

The thought of the venison was much more appealing. Ysabel hadn't seen hide nor hair of the eccentric man for at least half an hour and she was beginning to get anxious. She liked his attitude towards many things, especially mages and the fact that he had saved all three of their lives from Greagoir's Templar dogs.

She looked out from the hill's summit, if you could call it that, out into the dark, quiet fields that stretched for miles to the south and west, and the massive forest to the east. She spotted a smaller fire at the hill's base and carefully climbed down away from the main camp. As she got closer, it quickly became obvious what Harald was attempting to do. She had only ever seen runes like that in the Fade or on enchanted lyrium weapons.

He was either summoning or communing with what he called Daedra, and what she was pretty sure were Greater Demons or something similar. It was the only possible explanation she knew of, and she wasn't sure of it, but she had to find out.

Harald was moving around the fire, throwing twigs, dust and various deer bones into the flames, chanting slowly and precisely in a monotone.

"Hear me now, Lords of Oblivion. I call on you now to search me out. I served the whims of power, murder and destruction. I withstood the tests of pestilence, domination, revulsion. I have walked the paths of shadows, outcasts, knowledge, nightmares and debauchery. I strode through dusk and dawn, have destroyed the unhallowed, plotted the downfall of my enemies, hunted them and preyed upon them and stood through Order and Madness and come out whole. Come before me now and face me, Daedra of Oblivion plane."

Ysabel's eyes widened as dark circles began to form in front of her eyes and the sound of steel on steel resounded in the night air. Three forms began to materialise in front of him, faint forms that he kneeled before. There were two women and a man. The first woman had pitch black hair and pale skin and was wreathed in shadow with a raven perched on her shoulder. The second woman was simply a female shaped mass almost carved in two. One half white and the other black, with no facial features whatsoever. The man was old, with a thick white beard and who was dressed in extravagantly flamboyant clothes.

"Lady Nocturnal, Night Mistress of Shadows. Lady Azura, Mother of the Rose and Queen of the Night Sky. Lord Sheogorath, Mad God. It is an honour to see you again." The three Princes looked curiously at the kneeling mortal before them.

"Well look what we have here ladies. It's the misshapen toe of Akatosh himself! Hah! Good to see you again lad. I missed you when the Daedra were being overrun by tin soldiers and a harlot in a red robe with a bowl." Harald wisely avoided the Mad God's yellow, cunning eyes.

"My champion, I did not expect to see or hear from you again after you returned my restored star. It is good to see one of the world's old folk walk amongst us once again." The feminine figure that was Azura laid her hand on his shoulder and he felt it turn numb with simultaneous warmth and cold.

Nocturnal's cruel laugh cut at him like knives. "Nightingale, you have travelled far from where the rabid dog Hircine said he left you. Darkness follows everywhere you step, and you have indeed summoned me at night, which leaves me wondering about your purpose in summoning the Princes here. No-one reveres us anymore." Her voice was laced with bitterness, an unusual trait in Daedra.

"I only recently awoke from my slumber, my lord and ladies. I was... concerned about the well-being of my masters when I saw Oblivion no longer shone above Mundus. I wanted direction in these new times. I am... conflicted as to what I should do."

Sheogorath laughed. "You seek counsel from a mere Prince as me? You need to sort out your priorities lad. You should kill a beetle fricassee and sacrifice it to the ninth star from the centre of New Sheoth using a dragon's granite worktop! Hah!" Harald resisted rolling his eyes. That could warrant death, easily.

Nocturnal sneered. "Mortals, always needing help where it is not required. Your task from me is straight forward. Continue to revere me and bless the thieves amongst your people in my name. Form a new Thieves Guild and return glory to the shattered name of Shadow." She vanished and Harald breathed a sigh of relief.

Azura's hand was suddenly removed his shoulder and he looked back at her. "I know my sister does not see anything past herself, and perhaps I am the same, but know this. We are weaker than you knew us Dovahkiin, and yet we are the strongest amongst the Daedra to still be able to walk the mortal plane. Hircine has assumed another form and name, yet he stills hunts. Jyggalag and Malacath have created their own people from the Orsimer of your time. Do not be afraid to seek them out." Harald nodded.

"My direction to you is this. Bring strength to the Princes once more. Allow people to believe in us again, and find the resting places of those of us the Maker imprisoned. He usurped us and destroyed Oblivion. Free us so we may take back our kingdoms in the heavens. Serve me well Champion." Azura vanished as well.

Sheogorath pulled him to his feet. "You heard the blob of light and dark. Bring the Maker's kingdom down around him. Bring back the Isles, little dragon. And kill some rhubarb zombies for me! Oh, and tell the girl hiding over there that she shouldn't drink fish blood or she'll get hypochondria! Hah!" The Mad God also vanished.

Harald fell onto his back. The summoning had taken a lot out of him, even to only summon three of the Princes for a short time without a shrine or plane to sustain them. He chuckled out a ragged, exhausted laugh. "So mageling, how did you enjoy your first glimpse of forgotten elder gods?"


	6. Chapter 6

Ysabel sat down beside the exhausted body of the Dovahkiin and although she was shivering from awe and the cold, she made a noticeable shrug. "I can't say I've ever seen anything quite like them before. The Chantry goes on about how any devout Andrastrian can reach the Maker through prayer, but to actually see it done... it either gives me hope or destroys it. I'm not sure which yet." Harald smiled.

"Don't be fooled by them. The Daedric Princes are more like us than they or we would care to admit. Although, the three that bothered to contact me were thankfully among the more benign of my patrons. Nocturnal, the prissy one is... was the patron of the Thieves Guild of Tamriel, of which I was Guild Master and Nightingale member. Azura is the patron of the Dunmer, or Dark Elves and was the first one of the Daedra to contact me. Apparently she saw me coming or something like that... Now as for the drunken noble Sheogorath... he is quite, quite mad. But then again it is in his job description apparently. Nice man, not very bloodthirsty."

Ysabel chuckled as she helped him to his feet. They talked back and forth as they made their way back up the hill, where Lily and Jowan were curled up beside the fire like two very unfortunate cats. Harald sat down facing the fire, and relaxed with a sigh. After a few moments he rapped his breastplate, which clanged softly. He sighed sadly and began to pull it off, startling Ysabel.

He caught her look and smirked. "No worries initiate. The integrity of the plate is gone and I cannot sleep in full steel plate armour, no matter what any of the Companions might have said. I need a new set of armour made to my stature of else I'll be taking on tin soldiers in a linen vest, which while very comfortable would not be very healthy against a blade."

"Oh I don't know. Looks like swords would probably bounce off you." She grinned cheekily while Harald laughed heartily at her words. He exhaled and lay down flat, staring up at his Lady Azura's stars until he fell asleep.

X-X-X-X-DOVAKIIN-X-X-X-X

Harald looked around himself at the strange landscape around him. Tall twisting spires and roots of bronze-coloured stone trees stretched across islands that dotted the sky. Archways made of earth and rock held in places doorways blocked by doors of wood, stone and crackling, twisting energies dotted the surrounding area. Harald knew precisely who was near him at this point, and despite his dislike for this particular deity, he dropped to one knee.

"Lady Vaermina, Dreamweaver and Sleepstalker. I am honoured to meet you at last." A feminine chuckle echoed around him as he leapt up and spun to face her. She was taller than him by a good three foot, dressed in wolf furs and a long purple silk cloak. On her head was the skull of what seemed to be a bighorn sheep like those native to the mountains of High Rock with four horns instead of two, which covered her eyes and obscured her face for the most part too.

"Dovahkiin. You have met me before, in the Tower of the Dawn. You turned down my help then, though I do not begrudge you it. A man such as yourself should not be corrupted so easily, though I do so enjoy a challenge." She giggled as Harald moved backwards. "Welcome to my realm, Grim-Cairn of Kynareth's Plain and Akatosh's Temple. This is the Fade, a realm of demons, temptation, power and nightmares. Home sweet home." Harald rolled his eyes.

"You would think that, being the one to tempt me to kill a priest of Mara who was originally yours. Of course you think a realm that completely embodies your spheres of influence is 'Home sweet home'." He didn't know how, but he was sure she was pouting.

"You're nasty to me mortal. I'm not sure I like that. Better to hold your tongue before you start to feel maggots feasting on your entrails." Harald wisely shut his mouth. "Do you know why you are here? The mageling Amell is nearby, as is the wannabe conjuror Jowan. What do they have in common? Magic." She conjured a large armchair to sit on.

"It has changed since you and yours walked the roads of Mundus, Nord. All mages now have a permanent connection to the Fade which I control. However, I do not control the denizens of this realm. When I arrived here after Oblivion fell to the pompous windbag living on that island over there," she pointed to some towering black spires in the distance, "creatures formed from the dying Dremora and the overflow of human emotions and sins congregated on some of these islands, trying to find a way back through to the mortal plane by possessing mages bound to the plane by my will."

Harald smirked, despite his precarious position. "So you have a skeever infestation?"

The Daedric Prince sneered. "In a roundabout way, you speak the truth mortal. I want them gone. All of them. They are infecting every corner of my realm and I want them exterminated. You will carry this out while you sleep. In return your mages friends will remain safe from those denizens here which I command."

Harald gritted his teeth. "Aye Lady Vaermina. I accept your bargain. Now leave me to rest, dream witch."

X-X-X-X-DOVAHKIIN-X-X-X-X

Jowan was pointing to the north-east along the road away from their camp. "If we follow that road, we'll hit Denerim in about ... four days hopefully, if we aren't waylaid by anything ... or anyone." Harald could've smacked but he just sighed and shook his head. It was now a definite that they were going to be attacked at least twice. Jenassa would've buried this fool underground.

They set off, travelling light and Harald hunting in the early evening at the forest's edge. It was a quiet few days where Ysabel, Jowan and Lily would explain their lives in the Circle Tower, and Harald would tell them about the past, feeling oddly like an elderly war veteran telling war stories to their grandchildren.

As they told him more about what the world was like, at least according to the mage library, he felt a sinking feeling he had only felt twice before in his life. When he first entered the Shrine of Molag Bal in Markarth, and during his brief stay in Helgen. Neither had turned out particularly well in the short term for him at least, and it seemed to be the same here.

The humans had enslaved the elves. He had nearly wept at that news. He felt ashamed that his people would call another sentient being property, and still did to a certain extent. It wasn't that different than the Night of Tears. Ysgramor would have cursed out these so-called Magisters. They seemed like weak, greedy men who drained the lives of others to make their own easier. He was going to destroy them in a conflagration of fire and blood, with ease if the strength of their magic was anything to go by.

None of the three had seen or heard of a Khajiit or an Argonian and were completely disbelieving of his descriptions. They were probably imagining an eight foot tall house cat and an oversized two-legged gecko that could talk. It was both insulting and inaccurate to two such proud races that they should be forgotten, but he took heart from the fact that they couldn't be completely gone. It took more than five millennia to wipe out the memory of an entire race. The pantheons those races worshipped were a different matter.

The Orsimer were no longer heard of either, which made Harald silently question the truthfulness of Azura's tale of a people under Malacath and Jyggalag. They had however heard of a race of warriors and priests from beyond the northern seas who were said to be giant in stature and horned like ogres. They were masterful craftsmen and zealous crusaders that crushed any and all opposition to their way of life, the teachings of the Qun. Known as Qunari, Harald suspected they were descended, at least partially, from the Orsimer of Orsinium.

He was even more tempted to hide Jowan with a mace when he started talking again. "The road will cut into the Brecillian Forest at some points, so be on your guard. You never know when something might -" Harald yanked him back as a black-fletched arrow flew past his face, missing him by a hair length. It slammed into a tree as a few battle cries pierced the air. A dozen bandits were making their way out of the forest towards the startled group.

Lily shouted in surprise. "Chasind!"

The first leapt over the low stone wall, a rusty axe in hand. He was not expecting a steel-mailed fist to impact his jaw with the force of a blacksmith's hammer, sending him reeling with his powdered jaw hanging loose, while a follow-through with an open palm sent shards of his nasal cartilage into his brain, killing him outright. The rusty axe was quickly in hand.

The two behind the first runner never saw the twin bolts of lightning that slammed into their torsos, sending an electric shock that could barbecue a small bull through their bodies, stopping their hearts and boiling their insides and shutting down their entire nervous systems in a hazy and deceptively quick blaze of agonizing pain.

The next one were met by a combination of an axe to the chest, the momentum of which stopped him dead and sent his now corpse body backwards over the wall. The rest swarmed over the wall at once, now stuck fighting two mages and a well-trained mercenary as they saw it. Harald picked the sword off one of the lightly smouldering bodies and sharply cleaved another attackers sword arm off, before sweeping back and down to imbed the blade in the screaming man's skull.

He turned to see an corroded iron blade swing down towards him. He parried and shoved the bandit back towards Lily, who to his surprise sank a dagger she had picked up straight into the man's exposed neck, where she dropped him to the ground, bleeding out quickly. He heard the crunch of a foot next to him and stabbed the air behind him, the blade sinking deeply into the bandit's stomach. He turned around and sliced the head clean off the shoulders.

The single surviving bandit scrambled off, yelling in her strange language as she went. Harald called after her, "Tell others of what you saw here, sneak thief!" He chuckled deeply as he saw the green faces of his three companions as they surveyed the slaughter they had just committed. "Your first kills eh? You'll get used to it eventually. Just think of them as demons trying to possess you or something. That usually works for people." He began rifling through the pockets for gold whatever else he could find.

The novices looked at him with a little bit of guilt, but they each started retrieving any valuables or weapons lying about. By the end Harald had collected a grand sum of thirty silver, which greatly confused him until Ysabel explained the currency, while she was relaxing herself after vomiting up her lunch. Harald felt for her. She and both her friends had led sheltered, albeit repressed lives. He was used to death and killing as if it were a pastime as opposed to the death of a person.

However, they needed to get stronger quickly. The road ahead would be long, no matter what they did, and it would run red with a torrent of blood. Well, hopefully not, but since when did that ever work? That night, they camped at the edge of the Brecillian Forest with a rather large fire to ward off bears and any other creature that might come close.

Harald sat cleaning his newly acquired sword while the others slept lightly. The events of the day had shaken them completely and they were exhausted. The night was very quiet, save for the crickets in the undergrowth. Harald sighed contentedly, apparently satisfied with the state of his blade for now. He sheathed the blade and warmed himself by the fire. Until his ears picked up the sound of movement behind him.

He didn't move until the advancing figure got to about a foot behind him, and then he swung a clenched gauntlet fist into the attacker's face. He spun around and leapt onto it, drawing his sword and pressing it to ... her neck. He took in the wide eyes, pointed ears and characteristic sneer and sighed.

"Great, an Altmer."


	7. Chapter 7

It was a strange sight that Ysabel awoke too when she heard Harald calling her and her friends' names. Harald sat atop a severely annoyed elf in her early twenties, who seemed to be not even intimidated by the muscular form above her with a blade to her throat. If anything she seemed just irritated. She rolled her eyes and gave Jowan a jab with her foot before running over.

"Looks like the spider was caught in its own web Ysabel. This Altmer here tried to slit my throat while I was cleaning my blade. She's much shorter than normal though, isn't that right short-stack?" The elf spat at his face and refused to speak. "I think I struck a nerve."

Ysabel chuckled. "Indeed Harald. Then again not everyone is a Nord." Harald nodded in agreement.

"True, but Altmer are usually not much shorter than a cave troll. She can't be more than thirteen summers old." The elf spat at him again and began to struggle underneath him.

"Keep your dumb ideas to yourself shemlen! Ignorant as always! I'm twenty three you oaf! Now get off me before my partner-" Harald pressed the blade against her throat and she flinched, despite herself.

"We know you're there, Thalmor bastard. Come on out before I make your girlfriend's head into an ale tankard!" There was no sound from the forest at first, and then a veritable pounding of feet came from across the forest floor and from the plains to Harald's back. The small party soon found themselves surrounded by a group of almost twenty elven archers, with all their faces tattooed and bow-strings pulled tight.

Harald blinked and then laughed. He got up quickly, pulling the Altmer up with him. He kept the blade to her throat, making the archers tense up. Then he did something completely unexpected, by the archers at least. He picked the elf up and tossed her to the nearest archer, and then stuck his hands up in the air. "Parley?"

X-X-X-X-DOVAHKIIN-X-X-X-X

The four humans were led blindfolded through what Ysabel guessed was the route to where the elves were camped. She couldn't believe it; she was kidnapped by Dalish elves! She had dreamed of meeting the Dalish since she could walk, albeit under different circumstances, but it was the thought that counted. She didn't envy the hunter that had tried to wake up Lily. The normally shy initiate had head butted him in the guts, much to the uproarious amusement of Harald. It had been dark, but she could swear that some of the other hunters had been smirking.

She had read about the Dalish extensively of course, but nothing prepared her for the sight of the aravels, the smell of roasting meat and the stares of the Dalish, when her blindfold was pulled off. It was beautiful, rustic and homely, but so much more beautiful. The illusion was ruined by the jeers of some of the hunting party who had brought them in, including the 'Altmer' as an ancient-looking female elf walked up to the centre of the fire pit in front of the four, who were pushed to their knees.

"Shemlen, you were caught trespassing on our lands, and you threatened one of our hunters. As Keeper of this clan of the Dalish, it falls to me to pass judgement on you. I am Keeper Marethari, who are you?" Harald looked at the sad, kind face of the old elf and saw the steel of experience and cunning in her eyes. Her apprentice stood beside her, looking nervous and eager, somehow at the same time.

"Tell me this first Keeper. How did the Aldmeri of old fall?" The silence and confused stares from all the Dalish assembled told Harald nothing, except when he looked into the Keeper's eyes. She had paled and something resembling shock passed across her face. "How did the Altmer and the Bosmer become so ... pitiful? How did the Dunmer lose the strength of the ancestor spirits in the years I've been gone? Where is the Summerset Isle? Where is Arlathan?"

There were muffled gasps and angry sounding mutterings from the crowd as Marethari looked like she'd been slapped with a smithing hammer. "W-Who are you to speak of our people so long ago?"

Harald smirked. "My name is Harald Grim-Cairn, born of the north, where my breath is long winter. We are not known to the people of this land, or yours so how would my companions or I know if we were trespassing or not? It's not like you have goat heads mounted on spikes as a marker... do you?" Marethari's face quickly turned a shade of puce.

"Merrill!" Her apprentice startled and stared at the Keeper with wide open eyes. "Bring this one to my aravel. The rest of you, make his companions feel as welcome as our hunters." The three of them broke off and Harald had his bounds cut inside the rather spacious and comfortable land-ship, where he was sat down in a seat by a sheepish and apologetic, but deceptively strong Merrill.

The Keeper poured herself a glass of gold-coloured liquid and put it to her head. She sighed wearily and sat down opposite Harald. "You have to have a good reason for barging in like this, shemlen. One with your knowledge, or perceived knowledge, doesn't simply stumble across the Dalish like this. You were searching us out."

Harald shook his head. "I had no knowledge that any Mer were in these lands. As far as I knew, Man had driven the Mer out, much to my sorrow. Ysgramor himself never wished to drive the Mer into slavery, why should any other Nord?"

Marethari looked at him properly for a moment. "You no doubt have a story to tell stranger, about these words I have not heard before, and those I had not heard since my childhood. I haven't heard Arlathan being called Summerset Isle since I was a da'len of oh... six summers. I have only read of the Aldmeri in some of the rarest parchments known to the Dalish. An entire empire of elves that 'stretched across the lands before the waters rose and swallowed the towers of the Dragon's City' they say. So how do you know of it, shemlen?"

Harald smiled softly. "I fought against them, twice." Marethari froze and Merrill gasped. "Until recently I slept encased in the stone form of a hunter's hound. When I awakened to the world, it had changed. Even the things I held to be constant, my gods, my people, my homeland, were gone or altered. I now have a purpose, so I am content. But yes, I fought them twice. Once to defend my god, the other, to defend my home."

Merrill piped up, "How could you have fought them? You certainly don't look just shy of five millennia old. Maybe you're one of those abominations that's lived since the beginning of time, or a being that can kill dragons with their thoughts, or a madman who professes to see the dead, and one of your friends is fact a ghost himself but you don't know... sorry I'm rambling again." Marethari gave Merrill an indulgent smile and looked back to Harald.

"That's a fine tale shemlen, but can you give us proof?" Harald's face fell. How in the name of the Nine was he meant to prove that? "No matter, if doesn't seem like you mean us any harm, and besides, it is true that one of our more... zealous hunters attacked you first. It was an understandable reaction though, considering what the Shem did to her family."

Harald once again felt his pride in his race take a hit. "So it is true what Ysabel said, that elves are treated as slaves and scum? Even Ulfric wasn't about enslaving elves, he just wanted them gone. It makes me wonder if the Divines really are gone." He sighed and buried his head in his hands. Then a thought struck him. "You need proof eh? Let me tell you a story that was sung across in mead halls across Skyrim for centuries."

He got up; startling Merrill and making Marethari raise an eyebrow. Harald coughed. "With my apologies to the Bard Ogmund, long dead though he is. Seasons rest his memory."

"Our hero, our hero claims a warrior's heart; I tell you, I tell you the Dragonborn comes.

With a Voice wielding power of the ancient Nord art; believe, believe the Dragonborn comes.

It's an end to the evil, of all Skyrim's foes; beware, beware the Dragonborn comes.

For the darkness has passed, and the legend yet grows; you'll know, you'll know the Dragonborn's come!"

He sat down and took a deep breath before singing again, more quietly this time.

"Dragonborn, Dragonborn, by his honor is sworn to keep evil forever at bay.  
>And the fiercest foes rout, when they hear triumph's shout, Dragonborn, for your blessing we pray.<p>

Hearken now, sons of snow, to an age, long ago and the tale, boldly told, of the one.  
>Who was kin to both wyrm, and the races of man, with a power to rival the sun.<br>And the Scrolls have foretold, of black wings in the cold, that when brothers wage war come unfurled! Alduin, Bane of Kings, ancient shadow unbound, with a hunger to swallow the world!

But a day, shall arise, when the dark dragon's lies, will be silenced forever and then. Fair Skyrim will be free from foul Alduin's maw! Dragonborn, Dragonborn by his honor is sworn to keep evil forever at bay. And the fiercest foes rout, when they hear triumph's shout, Dragonborn, for your blessing we pray."

He looked at the two elves, who sat mesmerized by his display, and laughed heartily. "That is the legacy of my people, of the Nords. Four ages of honour, strength and will. The power of the Thu'um and of conquest against our enemies. And the Mer were there along with us at all turns, against Mehrunes Dagon and Alduin, the aspects of Destruction. Aye, the Altmer, Bosmer, Dunmer and Orsimer all played their part in shaping the world. Not to mention the Beastfolk. The Khajiit and the Argonians received far too little credit for they did."

Marethari nodded thoughtfully. "It would require a great deal of imagination to completely make fabricate that on the spot. Though you do sound like a madman, there is conviction in every word you say. I will give you the benefit of the doubt on this, shemlen." Harald noticed a look of relief on Merrill's face, which amused him. "I think we better check on your companions."

The noise they could now hear from outside worried them a little. Within sight of the aravel's front door, Ysabel could be seen with her hands unbound, brawling on the ground with the hunter Harald had pinned, surrounded by a cheering and betting crowd with Jowan and Lily amongst them. Harald broke down in laughter as Marethari and Merrill sighed wearily. The sound of Harald's loud belly laughs brought the attention of the crowd to them and it went silent.

A bloody-nosed Ysabel pointed at the black-eyed huntress, she did the same and said in their best child voices. "She started it!" This of course sent Harald and several of the hunters back into deep fits of laughter.

A/N: Cheers for all the reviews guys. To answer a question, when Harald refers to mages 'using their blood' he meant it figuratively as in using their whole being when casting a spell. He recognised the sort of energy output a ward spell would have and hence 'a soul ward'. But anyway thanks for reading this fic. – Fallen-wolfborn.


	8. Chapter 8

Harald slept restlessly, as he always did, but he was moving as soon as the sun rose over the trees of the Brecillian Forest. Keeper Marethari had promised him access to the Sabrae Clan's smithing and crafting resources. They apparently had plenty of leather and wood to spare, including a particularly durable wood called ironbark which Harald had not come across before in his travels, but were running low on iron metal so he'd have to use it sparingly. He had the feeling that the craftsman Ilen, who was staring at him, didn't like him very much.

When Lyna Mahariel woke up it was to the sound of metal striking metal, something she wasn't at all used to. She winced as the black eye the shemlen girl had given screamed at her. The human had a mean uppercut. But now her curiosity was peaked, something that had cost her dearly in the recent past, but she crept outside to see where the sound was coming from. She was very surprised to see the tall shem hammering a nail into the stitchwork of a rather crude set of armour with an iron circle embossed at torso level.

She sat in silence for the next hour, watching him perfect his new armour, which if she was honest looked as if he had melted down his old armour metal for use. Some of the same designs were still there among the nailing and almost patchwork leather mix. However it was the helmet design that threw her. With two eye holes, a nose piece and full head protection, whilst being covered in intricate runes the likes of which she had never seen; it was a great surprise that a human was the one who had made it.

Harald began chiselling some runes into the forehead of his redesigned iron helmet. With no horn or bone to make horns, the helm had looked a little bare. When he was finished he read over them. "_Blood and honour for Hrothgar_. It's good." He smiled wistfully at the thought of the snow of Skyrim and the bitter cold other races hated so much, but the Nords found barely uncomfortable. He tested the fit of the armour, and finding it too loose at the waist, fixed and tightened it.

He sheathed a Dalish sword, a Dar'Misaan on loan from a resting hunter, at his waist and tied his helmet to his belt with some leftover twine. He walked over to the ridge at the edge of the camp and looked down into the shallow gulley where he had seen Marethari's assistant disappear to earlier that morning. He had some questions he doubted the hunters could answer, and he knew the Keeper was still asleep, as she had promised to come and find him when she had breakfast.

He didn't notice the highly suspicious look that the bleary-eyed Lyna was giving him. She didn't like any shemlen she had ever met, save that strange Duncan man who turned up shortly after Tamlen had vanished in that ruin. Her heart still twinged at the thought of her hunting partner and friend, who she now guessed was dead. She regretted everyday not going into the ruins after him, but she knew that she would have likely ended up dead too. She made a split-second decision and decided to follow the shemlen. He was clearly up to no good.

Harald was content to walk through the forest in the early morning air. It was a homely feeling, like he was walking through the Rift again returning from Whiterun or Markarth, nearly over-encumbered with bandit and Forsworn gear and possibly some bear hides, thinking of his bed in Honeyside and the Thieves Guild he ran just underneath his feet. He smiled again at the memory of Brynjolf, Vex and Karliah and he playing that one game of poker that led to over half the Guild's wealth being betted on two hands. He had lost spectacularly both times.

The gulley ended in a small grass basin, where he could see Merrill sitting under a tree, her eyes closed. Something told him not to go anywhere near her, but the feeling was quickly quashed. He walked up and snapped his finger in front of her face. There was no response. "Merrill?" Again, no response. He poked her in the forehead, and her eyes snapped open, glowing white. He jumped back, just dodging a small fireball, but he wasn't quick enough to dodge a chunk of rock that flew from the ground and smashed into his body.

He went flying back and cracked his head off the embankment, making him see stars. He didn't know how long he had been lying there, but the sight of a smirking Lyna and the very worried Merrill brought him out of his stupor. He seriously needed to rethink his ideas about their magic. It had a definite kick to it. Like a stallion's horseshoe to the crotch.

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Lily and Jowan were giggling at the prone form of Harald, who had woken the Keeper's assistant Merrill from a trance and took a Rockfist to the chest for his trouble. Ysabel just shook her head at the sheepish look on his face, trying desperately to keep the smile off her face as the big man let the various poultices soak into his cut and bruised chest.

"Never wake up a Bosmer. My mother told me from the day I could walk, not to wake up a Bosmer. She was a wise woman indeed." Ysabel giggled and then frowned.

"Why do you do that, call some of us by weird little nicknames? I'm Breton, the two lovebirds are Imperials, Lyna's Altmer and now Merrill's a Bosmer. What are you on about?" Harald blinked and sighed.

"The first thing I saw when I came out of that statue was a Breton girl, at least to my eyes. Your skin is paler and your features a little more pronounced than most humans, and your hair is dark, not to even mention the talent with magic. You are a textbook Breton, even down to the accent. The Bretons inhabited High Rock to the northwest in the past. Either that or the Reach. Crazy Briarhearts trying to carve out my eyes as a present for the Hagravens..." He trailed off at the look on Ysabel's face.

"Sorry. Imperials have... had darker skin and different structure to their faces, similar to Jowan and Lily. Our favourite huntress has a different shade of skin to most of the rest of the clan and that typical holier-than-thou sneer, which isn't necessarily anything what they are like but it seemed to be like that in Skyrim, for the Thalmor at least. Shiny blaspheming milk-drinkers. As for wide-eyes herself, Bosmer tended to be hanging around near trees, like Spriggans without the buzzing noise."

Ysabel nodded. "I don't know whether that was actually truthful or just slightly bigoted." Harald chuckled. Marethari walked with a knowing smile as she looked the state of Harald.

"Shemlen, although we have enjoyed your presence for the past few days, the clan will be moving on towards the sea soon and you cannot travel with us." Ysabel's face dropped. "I am sorry, but you will have to make your own way to Denerim, or wherever you're heading to. We will be leaving tomorrow morning, but I have one last request to make of you, Grim-Cairn."

The old elf's eyes turned to Lyna, who was surprisingly talking away to an enraptured Lily as she surgically destroyed Jowan with an old training staff. "Take Lyna Mahariel with you." Harald's eyes widened. "She needs to be away from the clan for a time, to see the world of the shemlen. I wouldn't trust her safety with you normally, but she is still mourning for her partner Tamlen. She needs a distraction and travelling with others will do her good. Do me this favour and all the knowledge of this world that I have, is yours."

Harald was silent and then he nodded. "She requires training if she is to become silent while hunting. I can also offer her some archery teaching to supplement her own skill. I will only allow her to follow us if she wishes." Marethari nodded, knowing she made the right choice.

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Lyna had surprisingly agreed rather easily to the idea, being swayed by the thought of a bit more independence from the clan. "I get my own tent though. That's non-negotiable shemlen." Harald had laughed at the seriousness of the look on her face and afterwards when he reminded her that they had no tents. Marethari had been happy to supply them with some deer hide cover blankets and some surplus weapons Ilen had no use for.

"When we're training shemlen, you better not take it easy on me because I'm an elf."

Harald raised an eyebrow. "All four of you will be bruised and broken by the time I'm finished with you. I learned everything I know from the best so be prepared for it, little tree elf." He chuckled at the indignant sulking look that appeared on her face.

The feel of a large Dal'Thanaan battleaxe at his back sent a shiver of familiar weight down Harald's spine as he thought back to his precious Wuuthrad cleaving through the wolf spirit that haunted Ysgramor's Tomb, when he took over as Harbinger of the Companions. It had been among his greatest personal victories, freeing the old man's soul from Hircine, whose ring he still wore. He knew he would have to repay the rabid god some day, so he guessed that looking around for the altered Hircine wouldn't be unwise.

Jowan looked warily at the positively bouncing Lyna. "You sure she isn't possessed by something. She's not meant to be that happy to be leaving her family. Or at all. It's not in her nature from what I've seen. Reminds me of someone." Lily giggled as Ysabel nudged him none-too-gently in the arm.

"Oi, shemlen! We need to get going; the city of wet dogs won't wait for us forever." Lyna was also, he found, overly ... impatient to the point of it being amusing. He began to whistle as they set off down the forest path, Lyna leading at the front. Even he wasn't aware of the yellow eyes that watched them from the moment they stepped out of the camp.


	9. Chapter 9

"_SSSKKKRRREEEEE-_"*splunch*

Harald laughed heartily as the blade of his Dar'Misaan tore a gore-covered gouge through the shoulder of the next ugly misshapen half-Orc thing and deep into the torso, biting deeply into the lungs and ribcage, condemning it to death. With practiced ease, the blade was withdrawn, coated in a film of black blood and viscera. He swung around in a complete arc, and the edge sliced cleanly through mottled skin, thick muscle and strong bone before hitting the delicate windpipe in the centre of its neck. It passed straight through, and continued out the other side with a stream of gore following it.

The decapitated body of the Hurlock dropped heavily to its knees, the neck still spurting a small fountain of arterial spray, and collapsed with a meaty thud down onto the muddy grass as the useless head flew off at a tangent, and landed a few yards away with a wet slap. Harald wasted no time in working his way through the next monster, and the next, each with a spray or pool of black, malignant oozing blood to mark where his victims lay, surrounded by their rendered limbs.

The rest of the group made no movement, except for the ruthlessly efficient knife work shown by Lyna, who made a quick habit of hamstringing her opposing darkspawn and then simply and rapidly sheathing her blade in the neck and pulling through the Adam's apple and dropping it to the ground to writhe for a moment before it lay still and bled out. The two melee wielders made the open green copse look and feel like an Antivan abattoir in a matter of minutes.

The group of Darkspawn had been small, numbering only eight or so, but the heavy footsteps and inhuman screeching had stunned the apprentices for a matter of moments, and by then it was over. Every corpse lay splattered in its own viscera on the grass and Harald was smiling happily, having broken his frustration with the lack of any event over the past two days on the road. He inhaled deeply and began to whistle as he made his way over to the startled mages and Lily.

"It really is shaping up to be a wonderful day for us, isn't my friends?" Ysabel blinked and then scowled. She huffed and pulled her two friends along with her to continue down the road, leaving a perplexed Harald behind with the grinning Lyna, whose pockets were now slightly heavier with gold relieved from the corpses of the darkspawn.

The Dalish rolled her eyes at the sight of the mageling's reaction, but patted the large shem on the shoulder indulgently. "Never mind her Grim-Cairn; she just doesn't like being upstaged." Harald paused a moment, smirked and reshouldered his zweihander before moving on to catch up. The sun was beating down through the canopy of the now thinner treetops as they moved northwest towards the city of Denerim. Harald swore he could smell the manure from here.

"I have a question. What were those half-Orc, half-Draugr things we just slaughtered like fresh bandits?" The others gave a look at the strange analogy and then realised simultaneously what he had actually asked them, making them stare.

Lily shivered, Jowan paling at the realization of what they had actually seen in the forest. "Those were Darkspawn... the Chantry says the first Darkspawn were once mages who tried to overthrow the Maker and were cast down into the earth and punished. They usually stay below ground in the Deep Roads unless... unless they're led by an Archdemon." Jowan was quiet after that.

Harald nodded. "What's an Archdemon? The name conjures the image of Mehrunes Dagon... but I doubt a forty foot tall Dremora with four arms is what you're suggesting."

Ysabel shook her head. "An Archdemon leads the Darkspawn in battle against people on the surface during an invasion called a Blight. There have been four of them so far, only stopped by the creation and the subsequent intervention of the Grey Wardens. It's said they are the Fallen Gods, the ones the old Tevinter Mages worshipped before the coming of Andraste, but most everyone agrees that they took the form of dragons." Harald smiled and shook his head. Some things never change.

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It was beginning to get dark when the scent came in on the wind. The end of the forest paths was only a few yards away when Harald suddenly froze solid, stiff as stone. The hairs on the back of his neck rose as he sniffed the air. A faint odour permeated the nearby trees with the smell of wet fur and something Harald had not expected to pick up anytime soon. The scent of wolf-bloods.

Under normal circumstances, he would have greeted the rapidly approaching Hircine devotees with open arms, but Aela's pack was long dead and he wasn't sure of the reaction the strange werewolves would have to an unknown wolf. So he did the next best thing. "Run!" He took off like a bat out of hell towards the edge of the forest. The bewildered others quickened their pace to match his as they heard the sound of bounding, leaping heavy footsteps coming towards them at an unreal pace.

A chilling howl erupted from behind them, followed by several angry growls as two large grey werewolves crashed from the thicket behind them as they passed the forest line and stopped at the border between there and the grasslands. Seeing them stop, Harald turned around and paused, before dropping his equipment and beginning to pull off his armour. The others jolted, looking terrified and confused.

"Idiot shemlen, what do you think you're doing? Those creatures are leaving us alone, let's keep going!" came the agitated voice of Lyna. "I have no desire to be feasted upon by rabid werewolves!"

Harald gave them a determined and curious look. "I want to attempt something. Go on if you want, I'll catch up in an hour!" The others froze as Harald stripped down to his small clothes and started off towards the edge of the wood they had just come from. He stopped about twelve yards from the two wolfmen and dropped down to one knee. They growled at him for a moment; then stopped suddenly as Harald's head flew back in a silent scream.

The others stood still, frozen in a mix of shock and horror as Harald sprouted a thick coat of black fur and many bones in his body and face dislocated and reformed to give him the appearance of a seven foot tall werewolf. His blue eyes turned a sickly shade of yellow and massive canines grew in his mouth. His lupine head snapped backwards with the rest of his standing body and an absurdly loud howl erupted from his maw.

The earth actually seemed to shake momentarily as the imposing form of Wolf-Harald started to pound along the ground on all fours towards the bewildered werewolves who were stunned by the unexpected turn of events. He stopped directly in front of them and howled again in their disgruntled faces, as if he was taunting them. He then went and crouched in front of the group, growling at the werewolves.

The two looked at each other and bounded off back into the forest, a flock of birds erupting from the canopy to mark their passage. Wolf-Harald whuffed gently, making it clear to the still stunned apprentices that he was chuckling at his good fortune.

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The first thing Harald felt when he returned to human form was the cold iron of Lyna's dagger at his throat. They stood like that for what seemed like an eternity, until finally Lyna spoke. "What witchcraft was that, mageling?" Her voice trembled slightly, as if dealing with some deep-seated emotion. Harald was silent for a moment. The Nord popped his neck vertebrae and sighed.

"Many years ago, I joined a group of sellswords known as the Companions. I was in need of gold to fund my smithing training with an Imperial by the name of Adrianne Avenicci in the trade-city of Whiterun. Very quickly I discovered something terrifying, or it was to me then, that the inner Circle members of the Companions were all werewolves, who could change at will."

Lyna's dagger hovered ever closer to Harald's throat and he swallowed. "Eventually I was asked to join the Circle by a man named Skjor and his lover Aela, and they inducted me into their group, where I took on the blood of the wolf and thereby offered my soul to the Daedric Lord Hircine. Soon after, Skjor was killed by werewolf hunters known as the Silver Hand and Aela and I waged a crusade of vengeance upon them."

The dagger was now against his skin. "The Silver Hand retaliated, killing the Harbinger Kodlak Whitemane, leader of the Companions. We destroyed them utterly in punishment, but Kodlak had wanted to pass to Sovngarde instead of Hircine's Hunting Grounds. We travelled to the Tomb of Ysgramor and slew the wolf spirit that once inhabited Kodlak's soul, setting him free. However, I am still young, and have no wish to give away my blessing from the Hunter so soon. So I remain Harald Grim-Cairn of the Rift, Aelasson and Harbinger of the Companions."

The blade was relaxed minutely. "You can control it? The wolf I mean?" Harald grunted in the affirmative. The blade was removed. He turned to the scowling Lyna and shrugged, before dressing and walking on. Lyna remained still, the others beside her.

Ysabel walked up to Lyna and gave her a scathing glare. "You stupid fool! He did nothing but protect you and us and what do you do in return? You put a blade to his throat. You saw he was in control the whole time he was transformed. What in the name of the Maker possessed you to do that? I ... I can't understand it. I just can't. What idiocy were you trying to pull off there?"

Lyna remained stoic and walked off, following behind the Nord towards the high stone walls of the city of Denerim. The others followed behind, Ysabel glaring at Lyna's back while Jowan and Lily gave each other a worried look. However, when they reached the walls of the city, it was clear something had gone horribly against them.

Templars were everywhere, clad in heavy armour and armed with pole arms and greatswords of good quality. There were large crowds of people moving through the gates, as if they had just witnessed some great event and were now returning to their everyday lives. This was not a templar regiment sent to occupy the city or something of the kind. It was an escort for someone important, very important. This made things a lot more complicated.

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They entered the city under the cover of darkness, covered in cloaks to cover their robes save for Lily, who was to play the part of a Chantry sister shepherding some pilgrims to the cathedral from an outlying village. Turns out they needn't have bothered with the effort, as the whole city was celebrating heartily and no one noticed their passage through the gates and into the market place where a few large gazebos were set up, selling sweets and copious amounts of cheap alcohol.

It was suggested by Jowan that they ask around for information on what was going, a task happily accepted by Harald, who had been discreetly eyeing a few bottles of what seemed to be mead but could just have easily been piss-water lager. Ysabel tried to warn the Nord but his rebuttal was too good for her to argue. 'Five thousand years without a drink when he had been raised on the stuff' was a fair enough excuse.

Harald discreetly picked up a bottle of 5:34 Kale and took a swig. The spit-take at the bitter taste was almost comical as the others watched him confront the seller. "You call this drink? I've drank better sewer water! Imagine, trying to pass this off as mead. Maven Black-Briar must be rolling in her grave."

The seller, a sallow, rat-faced man sneered at the tall beggar. "What would you know about decent drink? You're just a dirty vagrant; you'd drink rat piss to slake that booze call of yours. Besides, it's only old men drink mead these days. That was a reserve cognac."

Harald's face darkened. "I used to work in a meadery down south tending the stills. I make better moonshine than a Breton does skooma. And as for the old man comment, my ancestors were making and drinking mead before the Chantry was founded."

The man still sneered. "You're just a stinking drunk foreigner. You couldn't tell the difference between your mother and King Cailan's queen bitch you're so stupid." Harald chuckled a moment, then swung his large fist into the seller's face, knocking him to the ground out cold. No one seemed to notice except the exasperated looking Ysabel. Harald came back muttering to himself about wine casks and places people shouldn't have them inserted.

It was then Jowan came back over with Lyna and an embarrassed-looking Lily, who had been watching some of the younger, wilder drunks dancing around shirtless. The look on Harald's face lightened as the atmosphere started to cheer him up. "It's nowhere as good as the Burning of King Olaf, but then again there's no mead around. Why is everyone getting sanguined tonight? The king hasn't died or something?"

Lyna smiled and shook her head. "The Orlesians have sent an envoy to the palace to celebrate the king's birthday and the Val Royeaux Reverend Mother sent a detachment of Templars with them. I can't see why the shem are enjoying it so much but then again shemlen rarely make any sense."

Lily smirked. "Neither do elves, but that's not the point. The Denerim Cathedral is just down the street so we can go tomorrow and take care of Ysabel's phylactery after breakfast when it opens. They don't store them in the cathedral but there'll be maps to the warehouses." Ysabel gained a ghost of a smile on her face. The thought of freedom was slightly dazing.

Harald broke into a massive grin. "I've only ever robbed a church twice and one of those times I was drunk. At least this time I won't feel guilty about it. I think my old friend Devlin would be proud. Not to mention Vex or Brynjolf. I think it's time for me to don a hood and boots again and steal something. Just like old times."


	10. Chapter 10

A/N Sorry about not posting this a hell of a lot earlier but several things came up this summer that delayed me considerably. It's good to be back people.

"A Thieves' Guild? A guild of footpads, highwaymen and burglars? You've got to be joking me shemlen! It makes no sense! You don't make any sense!"

Harald sighed at Lyna's outpouring of incredulity and frustration. The group was now sitting in a room they hired at a back-alley inn called 'The Leaky Keg' which sat adjacent to the main Denerim marketplace. Harald had tried to explain his rather high experience in the arts of lockpicking, pickpocketing and being an all-round sneaky guy. Lyna hadn't taken too kindly to it. However, Ysabel stood by him.

"The man with the stylish helmet already explained it Lyna. Their guild members were patrons to a nigh-omnipotent being that used darkness, shadows and luck to gain worshippers. Actually I see where she's coming from, it is slightly ridiculous. If I hadn't seen her with mine own two eyes I'd be wondering if you were at the ale." Harald snorted in derision.

"I wouldn't drink your piss-water booze if your king paid me. It would be a shame on my people. We prided ourselves on making the greatest alcoholic drinks in all Tamriel!" Lily giggled at the seemingly awed look on Jowan's face that appeared as Harald spoke. It was incredibly comical for someone so tall and serious in everything else to speak so about types of drink.

"Hereditary alcoholism aside Harald, if you actually have a plan maybe you should tell us?" Everybody turned and stared at Jowan, as if only just noticing him there. "What? I'm sensible... sometimes." Lily patted him on the shoulder sympathetically.

"Aye Jowan. You speak wise words for an Imperial look-alike. My plan is this. My Dark Lady Nocturnal wishes for me to re-establish a Thieves' Guild of sorts, if not like the days of old. I also plan to steal and destroy all the phylacteries in the Denerim Cathedral, not just Ysabel's. Maybe these two goals can be made into one single move." Silent nods greeted his idea. They all knew how much Harald disparaged the ideal of the imprisonment of mages, especially by the Templar's pseudo-magical means.

"However I will need help to get in. Which is why I am conscripting Lily to help." Silent nods greeted his idea, until they realised what he said.

"What?! Why are you dragging Lily into this?" cried Jowan.

"What? You want me to help?" asked Lily, disbelieving.

"Why didn't you choose me?!" crowed Lyna, causing Ysabel to stare at her weirdly.

"It's a simple matter of giving you something to do honestly." There was a stunned silence as they processed what Harald said. "Lily, you have a major advantage when it comes to knowledge of certain things, but you have little combat experience and no training. You are far from useless in this circle, but you need to be able to defend yourself if nothing else. Besides, you're the only one who can access the Cathedral easily without suspicion from the Chantry."

Lyna studied Lily for a second. "What could you train her in? She's not physically strong enough to wield a blade to a high level of confidence and she's not a mage. Or... were you thinking of knife-work? Marksmanship perhaps?"

Harald nodded. "A little of both actually. Lily, you dispatched one of those Chasind rather naturally with that dagger of yours. I could help you improve that and teach you how to use a bow, if you're interested that is. I did work with the Listener of the Dark Brotherhood for a few weeks on a job for Delvin Mallory, so I picked up a few things from the best and I was trained as an archer in the Imperial Army during the Great War. It's not hard once you get started."

Ysabel shook her head in disbelief. "Why only teach Lily?"

"What do you mean Ysabel?"

Jowan nodded, catching onto Ysabel's trail of thought. "I see what she's getting at. We're both novices as well. Lyna can hold her own without a doubt having been living with the Dalish all her life, but both Ysabel and I left the Tower before we could begin any real training of our own. We're just as inexperienced as Lily is. The only difference is we can throw lightning bolts from time to time."

Harald chuckled, and then nodded in agreement. "Alright Jowan, you convinced me. You really do have the Emperor's gift don't you? Damned Imperials." His eyes were filled with amusement.

"I can actually teach you two some great things of my homeland's magic, but I perfected my craft in the Destruction school above all else. As for Lily, well ... the Listener leads the Dark Brotherhood assassin's guild and can use a very useful spell which that horker-shit crazy Khajiit taught me after she blew up half of Hjaalmarch's swampland trying to kill my Housecarl. All I ask that you don't attack me."

He clenched his hand, gathering a ball of black swirling magic before releasing it and a purple shimmer opened up in the room. The shimmer vanished, leaving the spectral outline of a man, hooded and cloaked. The room was silent until the ghostly figure of Lucien Lachance bowed to the group. "A pleasure to meet you all. Hail Sithis."

He turned to Harald. "I still don't know why Sa'jiira gave you the means to summon me. You refused to join the Brotherhood and tried to kill the Listener four times. It seems rather naive given your abilities, one would have thought she would have tried to avoid you or send your soul to the Dread Father."

Harald shrugged. "Who knows why Sa'jiira did half the things she did. Why did she spare Nilsine Shatter-Shield but kill Narfi? Or spare Cicero when Astrid gave her clear instructions to butcher him? That cat was void-addled half the time and you know it Lucien, not to mention high on skooma for most of her life."

"I'm surprised you would use such a cheap stereotype of the Khajiit race to your advantage, Nord."

"Not for Sa'jiira it wasn't a stereotype. She drank a bottle with every meal."

"Alas, tis true."

"Of course it is Lucien. My friends, this is the ghost of Dark Brotherhood Listener Lucien Lachance. He has over five thousand years experience in stealth, assassination and cold-blooded murder. Lily, he will be your tutor."

Lily took one look at Lucien and fainted dead away.

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"A ghost?! You want to teach us, with a ghost?!" Ysabel's eyebrow twitched in irritation at Lyna's outburst. Lily was sitting in a chair now, pale as Lucien's phantom, who was chuckling malevolently. Jowan fretted over her well-being, bringing a blush to his girlfriend's cheeks.

"Do you Dalish not draw inspiration, advice, aye even your entire societal aim from your ancestors?" Everyone stopped and looked square at Harald in varying degrees of surprise. "What?"

"You do not inspire the idea that you are capable of higher vocabulary, Nord." Lucien's smirk was only eclipsed by Harald's scowl.

"And you don't inspire the idea that you can withstand sunlight, leech. You have yet to answer me, Altmer." Lyna blushed.

"That's true but ... we temper it with the knowledge that we will never reclaim the great glories of Arlathan. We lost that to our own hubris and that of the Shem. The ancestors are dead... and so they should remain. That spirit is not meant to walk among mortals and I don't trust it. Summoning him can only bring trouble and destruction to us." Harald wasn't surprised to hear the sincere concern in her voice.

"I trust in my own experience Lyna. Ten years of experience in the use of various conjuration magicks and summoning spells, including that of Lucien Lachance. I mastered all forms of magicka available to me during my tenure as the Archmage of the College of Winterhold, so forgive me my arrogance in saying that I trust a phantom murderer over the majority of actual people. Thank you for your concern Altmer, as it touches me deeply, but I'll keep to Lucien at the moment."

Seeing the various reactions of concession, anxiety and curious excitement from his friends, Harald sighed. "He has the experience to keep Lily alive and well-trained. He may also teach you, Lyna; if you so wish it. He is quite masterful with a bow and his knife-work is remarkable, even for a Listener of the Brotherhood. The Dread Father blessed him in life, undeath and death with latent skill and ruthlessness. It is a privilege to learn from him and I hope both of you will embrace it. I'm going to take a look around."

With that he walked out the door and into the morning air, filled with a strange mix of weariness and curiosity. He felt the glare from Lyna follow him out the door and shivered, before walking down the street to the marketplace.

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The Denerim marketplace was something he had seen before in all the major hold capitals in Skyrim. Men and elves bustled around, selling their wares and bargaining with vendors. Food, cloth, spices and various weapons and other knick-knacks were exchanged and money changed hands. It was a normal day in a major port town market. Like Winterhold but a hell of a lot warmer.

Harald was glad to see that not many people even paid attention to him. He was very tall for a Nord, standing at about six foot five, and so had attracted attention even in Riften when he was growing up. It was disconcerting, but very welcome and useful to see that people didn't notice him as much as they had back home. He could use that to his advantage.

It was then he decided to look around and get his bearings in the main plaza of the city, after all he would likely be escaping through it at some point, and the thought of being caught in some unknown dark alley by tin soldiers was not a thought he entertained kindly. It took him only a few minutes to make his way around the marketplace, which was not particularly big, and the surrounding streets were pretty dull and bare. Save for one thing.

A small shop barrelled into the terrace, the sign of which simply said "Wonders of Thedas". In the window he could magic staffs, alembics, assorted alchemical equipment and interestingly enough, a few chipped soul gems. The bell rang as he entered the shop, flanked by massive book cases on both sides and a large counter at the end. He browsed various shelves, reading the titles of various books and surprisingly finding a few titles he recognised.

Picking out those and a few other books on geography and the Chantry, he made his way to the desk. The teller was a pale, gaunt looking man with a face that put Harald ill at ease. There was something not quite right about this man and he knew it. "Welcome to the Wonders of Thedas. Can I help you with anything?" The complete lack of emotion chilled him to his core and the monotone made his neck hair stand on end.

"Are you alright kinsman?" Harald stared into the man's empty eyes as he nodded almost like an automaton.

"I am fine. Thank you for your concern. May I help you?"

Harald ignored the answer and said in a lower tone. "What happened to you?"

The eyes were still empty of life. "I was made Tranquil. I refused my Harrowing at the Circle of Magi in Starkhaven and I was made Tranquil to safeguard the other mages from demonic possession. Such is the way of the Circle. May I help you?"

"Who did this to you? What made you into this ... Tranquil?"

"The Knight-Commander Tellurius gave the order, but that is all I know. To be Tranquil is to have your magic removed so no demon may possess your body and turn you into an Abomination. To allow this danger to the world to go unchecked would be folly. May I help you?"

Harald stared at the Tranquil in horror, reeling at the idea of magic being removed from someone and feeling pure unbridled anger at the Templars for such an atrocity even existing. Then a thought struck him, and the implications made him smile. He looked the Tranquil right in the eyes. "I'd like to pay for these, kinsman. And tell me, where can I find an apothecary around here?"

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"So once more, bring the blade back across the larynx with as much pressure and as quickly possible if you want to cut his throat. Or as an alternative, carry two daggers and stick one into opposing sides of the base of his neck to sever the spinal cord. Any questions?"

Jowan was sitting transfixed in an eclectic mix of horror and macabre curiosity, watching Lily learn her new trade from the pale spectre of Lucien Lachance. His knowledge of the human body was absolutely fascinating and strange as the scene was, it felt good for him to know that Lily would not be totally defenceless if she were ever attacked.

However, the enthusiasm with which Lily was making notes on Lucien's lesson made him feel a bit nervous. Not to mention the apoplectic expression on Lyna's face. Lucien had volunteered her as his demonstrator's prop, but she wasn't taking to her new role very well.

He looked over to where Harald was chiselling away at a small circular table with various pieces of alchemical equipment and ingredients sitting around him. He had ignored nearly all questioning from the others about his new project, but he claimed that it wouldn't affect anyone here anyway. Pfft, like he believed the man who claimed to kill dragons by shouting at them. He would need to see a dragon 'fall from the sky like a drunken rock' as Harald claimed before he would give the madman credit.

Later, when the rest of the group were tucking into some spare tavern food Ysabel had snatched from downstairs when the unpleasant publican wasn't looking, Harald was setting up an alchemist's laboratory and laying out ingredients. He had a brilliant idea, or so he thought. He had managed to procure a few sprigs of Mora Tapinella and Red Mountain Flower, as well as a very suspect bowl of what the apothecary claimed was Ectoplasm.

This potion would restore his Magicka with no side effects, but his theory was that it could restore some of their so-called 'Mana' with no effects to the Tranquil himself. That sent him into a deep thought pattern. The Chantry claimed that magic was the Maker's Curse on humanity for its hubris, but that didn't make any sense, as other races had magic. Yet another discrepancy for his list. Mana was different to Magicka, almost like a more concentrated energy, but also more lethal to the caster.

The spells that Ysabel and Jowan cast had a strange energy to them, very familiar but he didn't quite recognise the foul feeling. It was a strong smell of flesh and wormwood as opposed to the lavender and nightshade that penetrated the casting of his magic, in a metaphorical sense of course. Savos Aren really had had a way of describing stuff that made Harald dizzy.

It was almost as if the two energies came from alternative sources in the body. Harald didn't know very much about anatomy though, save that decapitation kills everything. He supposed that the best place to ask would actually be the royal court, as you could always find an intellectual in Solitude when Skyrim was his home. Or the local psychotic servant of the Mad God, whatever took your fancy.

"Aye, that would be true little lizard man! Haskill really was psychotic! Bastard usurped the Dukedom of Dementia from me not three centuries ago. Didn't last a week before I ripped out his spine and made it into an accordion though. Such a disgusting instrument."

Harald froze solid as he registered the voice of the Mad God Sheogorath behind him. He turned and to his cost, stared straight into those cunning yellow eyes. Power rolled over him and he struggled to breathe properly. Suddenly that feeling stopped as Sheogorath's eyes turned to the others eating at the table in the other room.

"Now that is an endearing sight. A veritable little coven of chaotic personalities and powerful characters. Haven't seen something so nice since I took my first jaunt through Oblivion as a mortal. Warms all twelve of my hearts, including the eleven not in my ribcage." He turned back to Harald.

"Just thought I'd pop in to see you. You need information about two things my adorable little champion and I will supply them. First of all, know that this Maker-boyo is a total prick. He's nasty, snooty and generally a bastard in crimson robes. Also smells like newborn horkers, but don't ask me why. Andraste, his lady with the eternal chamber pot, was a lovely woman before he got his hooks into her head and started playing noughts and crosses with her nerve endings. She was a powerful mage, I'll tell you that much. Also knitted some nice sweaters, though I never wore one myself."

Harald looked confusedly at his patron. He hadn't so much as thought about the Chantry's Maker himself for a few days, but at least the Daedra were paying attention. "Thank you my lord for the help. I believe you said two things?"

"Aye half-scale, I did didn't I? Second thing is that an old friend of yours is lurking around somewhere to the south. A creepy auld hag with crazy piss-coloured eyes and a bad temper. All I'm saying is don't be flirting with her daughter; that girl has her own problematic half-gods and weirdoes to deal with. You royally ticked her off by playing hide and seek with the dog for a few millennia. Go apologise or you might end up with your innards strewn across yon cathedral down the road, d'ya hear me you little ball of prophesized doom?"

The Mad God turned and then stopped. "Oh aye, here's another old friend for you. Careful not to scratch the paint again or I'll deck you with a marmot. I'll see you in a while, oh fertile maiden of Riften. Or was that your mother? I can never remember."

As Sheogorath vanished, Harald felt something heavy fall from the ceiling and hit the carpet behind him. He turned and grinned at the sight of his favourite artefact, the Wabbajack.


	11. Chapter 11

Harald leapt at the iron staff and grabbed it, laughing with glee. He lovingly guided his hand over the misshapen faces on the staff head and looked skyward. "Thank you Lord of Madness! Thank you!"

He stood up and spun it like Arngeir had taught him in the Greybeard's temple. Staff fighting was an art mostly practised in Akavir and southern Hammerfell, but Jurgen Windcaller himself had recognised the utility of such a skill in the defense of the temple and had made it a requirement to the guards and later, all Greybeards. He swung it at length and thrust, as if striking at the throat of an invisible Draugr. Such a blow could cause decapitation.

He smiled again and stowed it at his back before bringing over his supplies of ingredients bought from the apothecary shop. His alchemy table was crude, but would service his needs. It was a magicka potion he was trying to make, not a philtre of stallion or anything so complex or gaudy. He pounded the fungi and plants to paste before adding the suspect ectoplasm, which didn't smell quite right. He filtered it and added some milk for flavour, or rather, a better flavour, before swirling the filtrate in a separate beaker.

It wasn't the characteristic blue, rather a pale orange, but it **felt** right and that was what mattered. He sniffed it and it smelled right, that nightshade and lavender aroma that also coincidentally permeated every nook and cranny of a skooma den. He took a sip and swirled the acrid flavour around his mouth before swallowing. It did not go down easy. He grimaced. The suspect ectoplasm had been something else, definitely. He didn't want to know what.

He felt a twinge of magicka return, but nothing compared what he had expected, so feeling disappointed and wondering where a Nord could get genuine ectoplasm at the hour of the night, he decided to bid his companions good night and settle down for a long nightmare.

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When he opened his eyes, the misty realm of Vaermina lay stretched out before him. The Fade shifted every now and again, so he wasn't anywhere near where the Nightmare Queen had met him before. The bronzed roots had been replaced with the tall, broken stones of what looked like a watchtower and it was difficult to see the sky. But Vaermina herself sat on her throne at the end of the hallway, splayed across the macabre twisted thing, still dressed in her furs and the horned skull helm.

Harald sighed heavily and approached the Dreamweaver, cautious as always of her indulgent smile and manner. Which he was right to do as the wall to his right suddenly gave way as a creature smashed in. It wasn't particularly large, but the limbs that looked to be made of fire made him pause a second. It looked like the fire of the Sky Forge had taken a form and it looked angry. The thing gurgled out a roar and shot at Harald with speed.

Harald jumped backwards out of the range of the swipe before smacking aside the next with a heavy swing from the Wabbajack which had been at his back. The offending limb recoiled and the beast roared again, this time in considerable pain. It had started to steam from the hand, as if it was burnt. Harald looked at the new red glow coming from the Wabbajack and grinned. "A gift to you, foul demon! From Lord Sheogorath!"

He stabbed forward with the Wabbajack again, connecting with the abdomen which began to smoke, causing the creature to reel backwards and edge away. Harald did not show it mercy as he charged up the staff's incredible power, before unleashing it a small red blast and blew the head portion of the fire thing clean off. It slumped to the stone floor before exploding outwards in a conflagration that Harald did not expect. It engulfed him.

Luckily, having the soul of a dragon meant two things for Harald, in the physical sense. He could kill anything that moved, and had the resistance of a hatchling to most elements. That was a very powerful protection when compared to a standard human. Where others would have been incinerated, Harald was lightly singed.

He coughed as the sweat poured down his neck and back, before wiping his eyes which had started to water. He scowled as the clapping and giggling Vaermina stood up from her throne. "Bravo, little dragon! Bravo!" He stood up and made his way over to the Daedra after picking up the Wabbajack. Vaermina sat down again, looking appraisingly at the iron staff stowed at Harald's back.

"So my little brother Sheogorath saw fit to give you the Wabbajack back. How... charming and typically chaotic of him. The effect on that Rage Demon was ... unexpected." Her smile was sincere, for a Daedra, and that set Harald's mind racing. She was scheming and that wasn't conducive to his continued survival.

"An actual demon? Not some twisted Dremora with a skin disease?" Vaermina grinned. "It didn't seem that tough, for something so feared."

The Sleepstalker laughed. "No, it didn't did it?" Her smile turned feral. "Leave Alduin's arrogance at the door, little dragon, lest it dominate you like it did your predecessor."

Harald started, and then glowered at the Daedra. "It is not arrogance, Lady Vaermina. I am not Alduin World-Eater. Nor am I Miraak the First. And I do not appreciate the comparison with two of my enemies that attempted to destroy or control everything I hold dear." He didn't know it, but there was a low blue glow in his eyes that Vaermina saw, and it sent a shiver down her spine.

She smirked. "Quiet down, little dragon. The Rage Demon is the weakest of the many and it belonged to Mehrunes Dagon's Badlands. Hunger Demons are rare, but belonged to Namira and so are a lot more dangerous. The Sloth Demons are next, they once belonged to me. It is bettered by the Desire Demon, the dying remnants of Sanguine's personal Dremora. The last, and worst are the Pride Demons. They belonged to Molag Bal, Lord of Domination." She noted the physical flinch at the last Prince's name.

"But enough about such refuse." She walked down and to his surprise, tapped him on the nose. "You're here to take care of such problems, aren't you little dragon?" He grunted in the affirmative. She beckoned for him to follow her down a passageway at the side of the tower, which led to a small circular darkened room. Torches lit up the culvert without provocation, revealing a trap door at the centre of the room.

Vaermina opened it and motioned beside it, her feral grin taking its place again. Harald gulped as he looked down through the gap into the gaping maw of ... a circular passageway leading downwards like the inside of the stairwells at the College of Magic. Harald sighed as he felt a little less ill at ease. The stairwell was well lit by bright torches as it circled down. He looked back to Vaermina. "Kill them all, little dragon. Try not to die."

Harald scowled at her then climbed down into the stairwell, drawing the Wabbajack from his back and preparing his left hand to fire icicles at a second notice. He heard the door close behind him. "Talos damn you, Dreamweaver."

His footsteps echoed loudly around him as he edged down the stairwell quickly and quietly, utilising all the skills Nocturnal had gifted him to remain undetected by anything that could be lurking inside the walls. His heart began to pound as the tension filled his head and the smell of burning lavender began to permeate the air, along with a tang of copper in his mouth. He swallowed the acrid taste away and continued down, down and down, until he reached the base, which opened up into a vast cavern.

The floor was marbled like in the Blue Palace and a large pool of crystal clear water sat at the centre of the room. He heard the clicking noise of claws in front of him and clenched his hand, focusing a shard of glacier ice into being. The clicking started to get louder and louder until suddenly it stopped. Harald sighed resignedly and looked up. He knew that the victims in the stories never looked up.

The being he saw was unexpected, and at the same time welcoming and familiar. It looked like a Giant Frostbite Spider with regards to shape and size, but the clattering fangs dripped with potent poison and blackened, scarred sores oozed black gunk from across the spider's body. A chattering sound began to radiate around him as thousands of claws, belonging to dozens of smaller spiderlings began to scatter across the marble floor towards him. The eight black beady eyes glinted with malice in the torchlight as the burbling Hunger Demon dropped to the floor, facing Harald eye-to-eye.

What it did not expect was for its new prey to laugh; cackling like it had lost its mind. It would feast tonight, and the mad human would host its youngling's eggs. The frothing mouth gurgled and the fangs clicked against one another as it prepared to strike. Unfortunately, no-one had told Harald how his death was supposed to happen.

"**Yol Toor Shul!"**

A wave of rolling flames ripped across the room, broiling everything in its path. Heat and air combined in the breath of an angry dragon as the Hunger Demons shrieked first in anger, then fear, and then lastly, fatal agony as their bodily fluids fried in their veins and the ichors that coated them acted as a potent accelerant, causing an explosive conflagration.

Harald began to hum to himself as the death cries of the approaching spiders filled his ears with music terrible and furious, desperate in its sharp rise and fall. The pool in the centre remained untouched by the flames as Harald strode forward, the Wabbajack in hand, wreathed in breathing, living fire like a chthonian god from the sagas of the Akavir. He breathed deep and the flames were extinguished, leaving the stench of charred demon flesh hanging in the air.

The door at the far end of the room was large and plated in brass, with spiders heads embossed into the metal. A chill ran down Harald's back as he approached the door. He inhaled deeply, but the acrid smell of the Hunger Demon corpses hit the back of his throat and he gagged. He braced himself against one side of the door and listened.

At first there was nothing, before a pounding erupted against the other side, startling him away from the door with a clattering of leather boots. He snarled in irritation and kicked the door open, knocking back the gibbering Draugr-like things that had congregated around the door. The Wabbajack fell with the foremost, cracking its mottled-looking skull into shards of bone and matter. The slavering fanged corpse behind that jumped at Harald, who dodged under the inbound zombie and swept the Wabbajack upwards, knocking back another two, before bludgeoning the fallen shambler.

The other two quickly met the same fate from a quick Wabbajack strike to the head and then Harald charged forward into another small group that came stumbling drunkenly up the stairwell he had found himself in, screaming with a desperate cry.

"Lady Meridia take you to Oblivion! Die! Die! DIE!"

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At the base of the stairwell was a chamber filled with a pure light, radiating from a pedestal at one end of the room. A stone statue stood, bathed in an internal light, of a beautiful woman covering her face, as if being attacked. Her face was etched in an expression of absolute terror. The light protected her, moving to block against the stray undead that strained to breach through to attack the statue.

The room was filled with the grunts and moans of the unhallowed dead as they were physically. Each one of these wretched things had once been alive and breathing, so many centuries ago. Here the restless, hungry spirits of races that had long since died swelled the air with the stench of their decomposing, dusty forms as the Maker had left them. In the dark of the void, no-one could have heard their screams, which had long since gone silent.

From the far side of the room, there came the first living sound these souls had heard for millennia. The pounding of armoured feet followed by a rousing cry that cut through their world of darkness. The hunger welled up in them as the fire came down the stairwell ahead of the figure, his face shadowed by the room's inherent darkness. The flames burned and hurt them, but again they felt alive, even as they died away, leaving only ash in their passing.

The final passing of their long torture at the hands of the Maker's plan. Each one that felt the fire breathed relief as their consciousness faded into oblivion. One however, was not ready to go. It stood far out of the way of the fire, its rotten features contorted in fear and anger. It sat back against the wall, as if it was dead. There was a small spark of intelligence still there amongst the hunger and the fear. It would not die this day.

Harald inspected the room as he dusted ash from himself and coughed away the smell of the burning flesh out of his lungs. He wiped dirt out of his tearing eyes as the bitter dust irritated them. The bright light after so long a period of darkness in the seemingly never-ending stairwell with the unhallowed in front of him didn't help the matter. However, the air was now charged with the smell of lavender and nightshade. Magicka permeated every pore of the room, only barely spoilt by the decaying, burning flesh.

The light source pulled him towards it, but he resisted the yanking on his mind, until his eyes could adjust. He moved his hand to touch at the floating ball of light in front of the statue, not noticing the small movement behind him pass out of the room and up the staircase. His fingers drifted over the barrier and it suddenly dropped away, the light vanishing into the statue. Harald had a bad feeling about what would happen next.

The ensuing flash blinded him as he dropped to the floor, writhing and screaming in agony, holding his eyes. As water poured from his tortured eyes, the stone of the statue began to crack and split, like the ashes of a fire falling away to reveal the still glowing embers underneath. Pale skin, caked in sweat and dirt was revealed, mostly covered by the plain white toga that she wore. Brilliant blonde hair cascaded down her shoulders, tangled in a matted mess around her face.

Furious brown eyes glared out at the pained form of Harald weeping into his hands on the cobbled floor. She brushed her hair from her eyes and growled in irritation. Wiping her hand across his eyes, she waited until Harald's vision returned as she knew it would, before she kicked with force in the ribs. He cried out in pain as the Daedra's bare skin burned his innards.

"Fool of a dragon! What idiocy have you perpetrated here? Interrupting a stasis with no thought for your life or the identity of the one entombed within, stupidity incarnate! Hircine obviously misjudged your intelligence, Harbinger."

Through agonised, blinking eyes, Harald stared into the face of Lady Meridia, the Dawnbreaker. He knew it, it had to be her. His eyes continued to water long after the pain had passed. "F-Forgive me, my Lady." He dropped his eyes to the floor, trying to avoid the ephemeral glow that surrounded her. It stung his aching eyes.

"Stand up and stop grovelling, Dovahkiin. You are above such base display for the Slayer of Alduin World-Eater. Where are we? Where is the mutt?" Her voice broached no time for small talk, or argument. Harald gulped through the pain.

"The Fade, my Lady. Lady Vaermina rules here, though I do not think she knew of your incarceration in these-"

"Oh she knew, Dovahkiin. She knew of all the moves that crimson usurper was about to make, and she did nothing. She watched Oblivion crash to the ground. She watched as Aetherius screamed in pain from the passing of an Aedra. She stood by and did nothing when Hircine liberated Mephala and I from the Black City and he had to resort to placing me in stasis to recover my injuries while they escaped into Mundus. Do not seek her innocence, Dovahkiin, lest I remove your eyes for good."

Harald grit his teeth in anger as Meridia accused Vaermina of treason and murder, strange as it seemed for a Daedra. It made sense now, the drastic damage to Aetherius he had seen in the sky. The death of a god would scar Mundus itself, never mind the very plane they lived on. He knew the stories of the destruction and change wrought by the undoing of Lorkhan. He started at the sound of Vaermina's footsteps approaching them from behind.

Her usually bright purple eyes were dim. Her footsteps were heavy. Harald and Meridia turned to her, on guard for any movement of attack. "You don't know what it was like, dear sister. To watch my home burn. To watch Oblivion sundered into pieces of its former glory. To have to watch the Black City I built be overrun by the legions of the Maker and later the undead. To see my Dremora die and feel each one of their deaths personally, and to see their remains defiled to the point they became the servants of the darkening."

Fire ignited in her eyes as Meridia stared at her. "Don't judge me for allowing Hircine to seal you away. I brought you here away from His roving eyes. Hircine and Mephala escaped and you were safe while the Fade was built around you. This island is separated from the demons and the other spirits that infest this place, save for those that I allow, so maybe you shouldn't judge my actions so harshly, Meridia the Dawnbreaker."

"Nor should you judge her words so lightly, Vaermina Dreamweaver." Harald's eyes were ablaze with a storm of emotions. He restrained himself from saying that might enrage her, but he couldn't be here any longer. "Let me leave. Now."

Vaermina looked at the blue beginning to leak into his eyes and understood just how much anger and grief he was keeping contained. She nodded, a signature feral smile making its way onto her face. She handed him a bottle containing a pale liquid. "Take this and get out of my home. Sweet dreams, little dragon. "

Harald's aching eyes snapped open as he woke up in a cold sweat, screaming in anguish and physical pain. He vaguely noted the others crowding around him, before a bottle of red colour was pushed into his mouth and his vision began to clear as the sweet-tasting liquid poured down his throat. He coughed as some went into the wrong pipe, before relaxing, the bottle of ectoplasm still in his hand.

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He said nothing to the others except thank you, but he promised to show them something later. The sun was breaking through the window as he finished his work. Breathing hard, he took his first sip of the finished mixture. The nightshade and lavender smell was pungent and the tastes like copper and wheat. It was different from his normal dose of magicka potion, but the addition of some of one of Jowan's mana potions seemed to do the trick.

His magicka felt replenished in full and he grinned through blue-stained teeth. "Jowan! Ysabel! Get in here and try this."

The two sleep-deprived mages groaned tiredly. "What do you want, Nord?"

The smile was reinforced with that Tamrielic fire that always sat just behind his eyes. "I want change the world as you know it Jowan. To shake the foundations of the Chantry and liberate the mages. To serve my Daedric masters and bring down the Maker for good. He killed an Aedra. Now I will kill him."


	12. Chapter 12

I realize a lot of readers are going to feel indignant and hateful over my not updating for so long and then deciding to rewrite this, my most popular story and I understand and respect that. However, I ask you to hear my reasoning.

This story spawned from my mind as a lot of stories do, with no end point and fuelled by usually by my very flighty and temporary obsessions with a particular game or fandom. I have literally a dozen or more fics in waiting like this that I haven't posted on the site.

The problem with this particular story in my mind is that I haven't left any room for development. I have made mistakes with the lore. I didn't plan the damned thing to any extent and so the plot went away from where I could control it from beginning to end.

My updates were always too slow and too short for my liking never mind the dozen or so readers who mentioned it. Not to mention this was my last year at school and so my studying for final exams made it a really bad idea to be writing.

Re write is the only option for me as this phenomenon is just too popular and has too much potential to be put down. I'm sorry for having taken your time today and hope that you will write in with suggestions about how to make the rewritten version better for you; the reader.

Yours,

Fallen-Wolfborn.


	13. Author's Note - Rewrite up

A/N: To all faithful readers old and new, the rewrite of this story is now posted under the title, 'Wicked Man'. Thank you for your patience and patronage.

Fallen-wolfborn.


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